Valley Glen
by Princess Pinky
Summary: After spending decades as her son, John has come to terms with the fact that his mother no longer remembers him. But, there is someone she does remember: all he has to do is ask her about Valley Glen, California, 2008.


**A/N:** I got the inspiration for this fic from the Rascal Flatts' song, "Ellsworth." It's not exactly the same trajectory though. But I'd highly recommend listening to it, it's a very good (and sentimental) song. Anyway, enjoy!

_**Valley Glen**_

John Juergens pushed slowly through the front doors of the nursing home located in downtown Manhattan. A cacophony of musty cleaning chemicals assaulted his nostrils and he discreetly flipped the collar up on his jacket to protect his senses as he briskly strode through the main entrance. As much as he tried not to look, the view from his peripheral couldn't help but pick up the crowd of seniors carrying various forms of artillery – a walker, an IV stand, an oxygen tank, a cane – milling around in what served as the entertainment room.

There wasn't much in the way of entertainment, though. A few nurses were giving pills to some of the patients, one elderly woman in a frail cotton Mumu was fighting with a male nurse about the hearing aids she held in her palm, and the television was turned onto a very old rerun from the Matt Smith era of _Doctor Who_. Of course, the volume had been turned down and the subtitles turned on, as was the routine.

John shuddered as he veered a sharp left and dodged an Asian man with a cane, probably in his late seventies or early eighties, hobbling down the hallway with a limp. He caught a whiff of stale urine as he passed an open door and swallowed the automatic reflex at the back of his throat. He hated going to these places, they were all the same. The only thing that he hated more was that his mother was in one, all because he'd _put_ her there.

He arrived at the door on the right at the end of the hall and stopped, pausing to regain his composure. When all of his bodily functions were in check, he knocked once and then twisted the knob, pushing and peering in slowly. "Mom?" When he got no response, he pushed a little more until he could wedge himself inside. "Are you asleep?"

She wasn't.

Amy Juergens sat at her vanity at the back of her room. It had been a guilty gift from John when he'd moved her in: intricately carved cherry wood with a top so smooth she could see her reflection in it. It paled to the large mirror that sat across from her though, trimmed in twinkling bulbs like something right out of an old school Hollywood actress's dressing room. She wore a soft blue cotton nightgown, with a turquoise snowflake pattern strewn across it, and her silver hair – with soft hints of the amber brown color from her youth – lay draped over her left shoulder as she raked her unpainted fingernails through it.

"Did you hear me, Mom?" John inched towards the bed and sat down on the corner. "How are you?" he asked, touching her arm lightly enough to evoke her attention, but not enough to startle her.

Amy jumped anyway and rotated her head. Her eyes gleamed just the way John remembered them growing up, but deep lines etched her once taut face and the skin sagged a bit from her cheek and jawbones. "Oh!" she chirped in surprise. Her hand fell to her chest and she chuckled. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you there." She smiled lamely. "Have you come to help me with my hair?"

John nodded quietly and reached around her to grab an antique brush that had once belonged to Mimsy, his great grandmother. He leaned forward and combed the soft bristles through his mother's hair. "Yes, I'm here to help you with your hair."

Amy nodded silently. Her eyes drank him in. "Are you new here? I don't think I've seen you before."

"My name's John."

"John," she repeated, nodding as if making a mental sticky note. "John. I'm Amy." She offered her hand.

John shook it. Again. He'd lost count of how many times they went through this routine. _Maybe if I visited her more_, he thought bitterly.

Amy studied him for about fifteen brush strokes, then announced, "You look awfully familiar, John. Have we met before?"

John held his breath and reminded himself that he needed to keep his composure. "Yes," he nodded. "Yes we have."

"Oh," Amy blushed, her tired cheeks turning a soft rose petal pink. "I apologize. My mind's not as sharp as it used to be." She tapped her temple with her index finger. "I forget things sometimes." She tilted her head. "How did we meet again?"

"You knew my father."

"Your father?" Her eyes glazed over, trying to place him. "Who's your father?"

"Ricky Underwood."

Amy shuddered like a leaf in a windstorm in response. _"Ricky,"_ she said gravely, shaking her head. "He wasn't a very nice boy. He took advantage, that Ricky Underwood! He took advantage of a lot of girls!"

"I'm sorry to hear that."

The hard lines around her eyes softened. "But I suppose that's not your fault," she sighed, reaching out to pat his knee. "You're not your father." Amy clicked her tongue to the roof of her mouth. "But I knew a boy who didn't."

John nodded. "Oh?" he asked, already knowing what she was about to say by heart.

"Yes!" A familiar twinkle returned to her eyes; a childlike innocence that John had only ever seen in his grandmother's old photo albums. "Yes, his name was Ben. Ben Boykewich…and I fell in love with him."

John got up and came to sit down on the red velvet lined bench that matched her cherry wood vanity. He curled his hand under her hair and pulled it onto her back so he could continue brushing it. "Tell me about Ben," he urged, still watching her face from the mirror.

"I met him the first day of my freshman year," Amy said, her voice almost like a song. "Grant High School, Valley Glen, California: September first, two-thousand-eight. He took me to the church gymnasium on our first date because the school's was closed for remodeling. He didn't look like much in that long sleeved gray v-neck and faded jeans, but when he held me in the middle of that empty basketball court…"

John watched her lift a hand to her cheek, catching a tear as it rolled down the back of her hand following a pale blue vein beneath her white skin. John maneuvered his hand around her shoulder to wrap his hand around his mother's. "I wish I could've met him, he sounds like a good man."

"A very good man," Amy whispered. "He used to hold my hand as he carried my books down the hall." She closed her eyes and her fingers parted ever so gently, as if invisible fingers were entwined with her own. "He wanted to marry me. He asked me in the park after hauling this big picnic basket of chicken wings, Seven-Up, champagne glasses, grapes – green _and_ purple, apples, and alcohol wipes all the way to the bench by the fountain! And when I was all done he just said 'Can I ask you something?' and then got done on one knee and – and – oh, John! That ring was so clean, so simple, so elegant, like he made it just for me. Just a single diamond in a gold setting, but when that Sunday sunshine hit it there was this rainbow and it was like I could see all his feelings for me right there on the surface!" Her glassy eyes caught her ring finger in her reflection: ringless. She sniffled.

"I'm sorry." John cupped her hand, hiding its bareness. "Tell me about October tenth."

The tension in her wrist melted away like butter touching a hot griddle. "October tenth," she repeated. _"Our wedding day." _The lids fell over her eyes like curtains dropping for intermission. "Albertson's. We got married at Albertson's. Not the grocery store, but a small wedding chapel. Valley Glen only had one, run by a funny little man with graying hair and a silver bowtie. I always thought he looked like the Great and Powerful Oz…when he was younger of course."

"Of course."

"Ben was so handsome in that black suit and tie. I tucked a red rose into his left breast pocket and he gave me a white carnation bouquet, speckled with baby's breath and bright purple daisies. It smelt like a meadow at the peak of bloom!" Amy inhaled deeply as though the bouquet she spoke of sat on the vanity right beneath her nose. "He walked by my side down the aisle, our arms hooked so tightly not even the devil himself could have taken us apart." At that moment, an involuntarily yawn wisped from her lips.

John emptied her hairbrush and set it atop the vanity. "Come on," he said gently, rising to his feet and offering his hand for support. "It looks like you could use a nap."

Amy rose without resistance, swishing her nightgown as if it were her wedding dress as John led her to her bed. She climbed in with a wistful look on her eyes. She was somewhere far away: not miles, but years, decades, a _lifetime_ away. "I do," she murmured as her head touched the pillow. _"I do."_

John bent down and pressed a hallow kiss to his mother's paper thin cheek. "Sweet dreams, Mom."

**TSLOTAT TSLOTAT TSLOTAT TSLOTAT**

Nineteen months later John found himself opening the passenger side of his silver Infiniti in middle of an old high school parking lot that held a smattering of cars, most of which seemed ancient to him. He'd been in Valley Glen for little more than a day and yet his lungs were still adjusting to the ocean air. California hadn't been his home for a long time, but as he helped his forgetful mother out of the car, it was clear that she was inhaling _home_.

Amy's eyes widened as she pointed to the old school building: _Ulysses S. Grant High School_. "I know this place! I used to go here!" she spoke excitedly.

John offered his arm and Amy took it without thinking. He helped her cross the parking lot and up onto the sidewalk, heading to the double doors. As they neared them, a large banner above them read: _Welcome back Class of '12!_

"I was in the class of two-thousand-twelve!"

"Yes, Mom," John agreed. "You're here for your reunion, don't you remember? We talked about this last night."

But Amy didn't seem to hear him. Her pace, usually snaillike and cumbersome, was suddenly charged with electricity. She, for once, was tugging John along. "I met Ben Boykewich in this hall," she whispered, attempting to draw open the heavy metal door.

John helped her and allowed her to break away from him as he held it open. He watched her as she slowed down, moving slowly down the hall. It reminded him of the scenes in _Titanic_, when the decayed, moss covered boat suddenly began to shift back to its maiden voyage appearance, and he wondered if that's what it looked like through his mother's eyes. John hurried to catch up with her and waited dutifully until she'd taken everything in. He was just about to tell her that they needed to go when she moved away from him, to a seemingly random locker, and began to meddle with the lock. "Mom! What are you doing?"

"This is my locker," she beamed, fumbling with the code. "I'll show you, I used to – I used to…" She frowned suddenly. "Why isn't it working?"

John touched her hand. "It's not your locker anymore. They've changed the combination."

"But-"

"It's been a long time." John tugged at her hand. "Let's go. You have old friends to see." He led her, somewhat resisting, down the hall to the gymnasium which was flanked in balloons and streamers in the school colors: hot orange, black, and white.

"Your name?" the woman at the table queried.

"Amy Juergens," John answered. "And I'm her son, John."

The woman scribbled down their names onto _Hello, My Name Is…_ sticky tags and handed them to John. "We're glad you could make it, Mrs. Juergens."

"_Ms._ And thank you." He pulled slightly, guiding his mother into the gym. Music was playing softly in the background, but it was a song that John was unfamiliar with. As were the faces. It momentarily surprised him how few people there were, compared to his own high school reunions. However, on the flip side, there were many young people – sons, daughters, granddaughters, and grandsons – like himself who had shown up to help their elderly relatives to and fro.

During the course of the next three hours, John introduced himself to faces he didn't know, but names he recognized from somewhere in his parents' iterations of their pasts, and he even ran into his mother's old high school friend, Lauren Barnsworth, née Treacy, and he chatted pleasantly with Lauren's grown daughter, Tara, and her husband for a while as their mothers reminisced what they could, until Tara announced that it was time to get her mother home so she could take her medicine on schedule.

John wrapped his arm around his mother's shoulders as she watched longingly after Lauren. "I have her number, Mom, don't worry. Maybe we can get the two of you together again sometime in the future?" he said hopefully. But on the inside, he felt ridiculous for even talking about setting up what was essentially a play date for his fully grown mother.

"'Mom'?" Amy said suddenly, her eyes flooding with confusion. "Dear, I think you have the wrong person. I don't even know you."

John sighed. "You knew my father. We've met before. I'm John, remember?" He patted her shoulder. "I think we need to get you back to the hotel, 'eh?" He exhaled slowly. "I'm sorry this didn't pan out, M – Amy. I was hoping…" He closed his eyes. "I don't know what I was hoping." He angled her in the direction of the doors. "Let's go." As they began to cut across the basketball court, John realized that most everyone had already gone, and those who were still lingering, were leaving around them.

"A – Amy?"

Suddenly his mother became a stone in his arms. It was useless to push her forward and could only watch as she turned in his arms and stepped around him as if he were just a large potted plant in her line of vision.

"Amy?" the scratchy male voice asked again. It was tainted with an Italian accent that didn't quite belong. "Is that really you?"

John turned on his heel. The old man's hair was white and he wore glasses now, but he was still tall and skinny – if not a bit hunched over from age – just as he'd seen in his mother's old pictures. He opened his mouth to question, just to be sure, but his mother beat him to it.

"Ben!"

And in that moment, John realized he was merely a bump in their path. He quickly stepped out of their way as his mother and Ben – a man he'd spent years looking for, but had been unsuccessful in locating once he'd learned that Ben had moved to Italy – embraced in the middle of the court, their movements as fluid as if they were suddenly fifteen again.

John felt a jealous twinge beep through his veins. Here he was, her own son, and she had no idea who he was. But right before his eyes was an old man who she hadn't seen since she was a teenager and her eyes lit up with the fondest of love. Immediately, a pulse of guilt washed away the jealousy. She'd been lost for so long: after she'd broken off her engagement to his father, there had been men here and there throughout his life, but never one that she was serious enough about to become engaged to, let alone marry, and John knew why: she had fallen in love a long time ago in September 2008, right there on a basketball court in Valley Glen, California, in the arms of a man named Ben Boykewich.

So John took a seat and he watched them drift away, lost to time, and more importantly, to one another.


End file.
